HiNaBN-Lightwaves

He heard footsteps. That was the first thing the former agent was aware of, though the voices down the alley came shortly afterward. The echoes combined with the throbbing in his head were doing little for his coherency, however, and the cool asphalt pressed against his face wasn't helping matters. "-- doesn't matter, does it? I mean, he's gonna kick and swear the whole time," a voice spat. There was a clang, and the sound of something like a tin can ricocheting off the alley walls. "We'll probably have to drag him back." "You're making a mountain out of a molehill," a second voice said. "Says the one who was freaking the fuck out." The

In retrospect, perhaps searching the slums in complete darkness was not the best idea. The former agent couldn't help but muse on this as he and Hanna made their way through the streets. The redhead was using light from a rune on his palm to chase away the shadows, but it seemed to be revealing little beyond overflowing trash bags, old beer cans and rotting cardboard. Even with the lack of things to be found, however, the ex-agent felt somewhat on edge. Perhaps it was the situation, but it seemed to him every corner and every shadow could be housing Ellis and his awful grin, ready to leer at Hanna and remind them of everything they'd done.

The really sad thing was how familiar this sort of thing was to Doctor Luce Worth. Waking up without a clue as to where he was... well, that could be attributed to more evenings with Lamont than he could count. Waking in handcuffs wasn't exactly a novelty either, although he'd been forbidden from ever discussing that particular incident ever again. The aches and pains were a pretty major constant in his life. Except he was pretty sure this hadn't been voluntary this time around. The memories of the teenagers in hoods were fuzzy, but they were enough. The blond let out a grunt as he forced his eyes open, blinking blearily in the dim light.

Mornings were always a bit of an adventure in the Cross apartment. It didn't matter how early Hanna had gone to sleep, the former agent always found himself being the one to wake him up. He always found himself standing in the redhead's doorway, knocking on the frame and insisting it was eleven in the morning, and no matter how often he did this Hanna would still be begging for another five minutes. Of course, breakfast was usually a good enough promise to get Hanna out of bed, but given the redhead's lack of coordination in the morning it was still rather impressive if he made it into the kitchen without something happening. Whether it was